


Lady Macbeth

by motelsamndean (whalesandfails)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, bolded is lady macbeth lines, shakespearean addition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-18 17:12:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalesandfails/pseuds/motelsamndean
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 7





	Lady Macbeth

He kissed Dean in the dim hallways of their fourth school of the year. 

Sam heard the clatter of his brother’s boots as he strode through the doorway into the lone lit classroom, waited patiently at the door while Sam finished his afterschool test (filled in random squares for the last few answers – he couldn’t focus with Dean in the room, Dean’s glance was glazed over in a way that told Sam they were moving on, that said he didn’t even bother taking in the room it was already so far in their past). But he saw Sam – he did. Always did. Held his gaze as Sam packed his back and skirted around him out of the room. 

High schools always looked strange when they were empty. And the light flickered and guttered above them, and the hallway was washed in darkness, and he could see the outline of Dean’s nose, knew the freckles scattered there even in the gloom. Knew the look on his face just by the sound of his breath. He knew Dean better than he knew his own reflection, sometimes was startled in the mirror when his own face looked back at him instead of his brother’s. _**Out, damned spot, out.**_ He wanted nothing more than to have Dean press him up against a locker, didn’t know how to breathe life into his dreams. 

Sam knew his brother stopped going to classes. Stopped paying attention. Stopped absorbing the content. But he didn’t know when. And he didn’t know why. And he didn’t dare ask. Sam just knew that however long ago Dean had stopped, he didn’t absorb the Shakespearean works. And he didn’t fall headfirst into iambic pentameter and dream of his brother’s lips the way Sam did. 

And Sam tried to stop – he did – but his brother filled those ancient pages with glances and words and foul thoughts. No matter the bond (of blood of sin of love) Sam reveled in it, found hope and a deep longing that settled heavy in his ribs even when Dean was within grabbing distance (but he wasn’t, not really, not ever; wasn’t Sam’s to latch onto and take). _**Your eye, your hand, your tongue – look like the innocent flower.**_ Brother, lover, husband, father. It didn’t matter. The tragedies, the comedies. All for Dean. All of Dean. Sam fastened to the timeless tales, like a vise, like a salve. 

But there – in the dark recesses of the end of the hall. A growl. Dean had Sam backed up so fast against the lockers a metallic clang echoed down the linoleum. Sam’s head rang. He felt like a heroine. Like a protagonist, touched by fate. The growl crescendoed into a high whine, and revealed a janitor adhered to a vacuum down the hall, passed quickly into and out of their line of sight. 

Dean huffed out a quiet breath, slid his hand to the small of his back where Sam knew blade and gun nestled both. Sam reached around, under layers, felt the tentative touch of calloused fingertips as he felt the leather grip of the blade, warm from touching Dean’s skin. Dean’s hand melted away, came to rest against the locker, inches away from where Sam’s hip met his ribs, the soft vulnerability of exposed gut. A language of power, of blind spots, their own secret tongue told in body stances and brutality. 

Sam moved his hand, lay his palm flat against Dean’s back, fingers splayed wide. And, there – intentionality. No longer a gesture of security, an easing of fears; now touch without incentive. Without driving, agonizing need for survival. Sam’s other hand fisted into the warm cotton of Dean’s tee, the cracks of the aging band logo leaving small fragments in his palm. Dean hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t even tried, and Sam’s vicelike grip was unwarranted. 

The moment to move passed, and passed again. It was never this hard in stories. Sam couldn’t tell what Dean was thinking, there was no raw, devastated, hopeful look on his face the way Sam pictured there would be. It was just Dean, one eye gleaming in the light from the classroom down the hall, other obscured into black nothingness. A half a face was all it took, and Sam couldn’t keep his fingers to himself. He had touched Dean a thousand times or more. To wrestle, to play, to comfort. And yet the body under his felt foreign, so alien and soft Sam wondered if he was dreaming. He knew how would dream of this for the rest of his life. _**Will these hands never be clean?**_

Still, Dean hadn’t pulled away. Sam held his gaze and slowly climbed to his tiptoes, calves aching from the slow ascent. And now they were nose to nose. Sam pressed close, pointed tip of nose moving slowly against Dean’s, drawing soft constellations on the stars mapped there. He felt Dean breathe out, knew how close their mouths were. Dean’s hand moved up his back, pressed between his shoulder blades, applied just enough pressure to force Sam to lean in. 

It wasn’t a kiss – not at first. It was a conversation. A garbled throaty sound of guilt, a weighty swallow, the soft susurrus of two tongues reaching out to wet lips. The janitor and teacher so quiet it felt like nobody was around for miles, as though the world had held its breath for this. And suddenly, their violence returned. Sam’s hand in Dean’s shirt turned to a claw with talons in the same moment Dean bit down on Sam’s lower lip. Sam arched into the pain and their tongues tangled, exploring the scant inches of each other they weren’t already well-acquainted with. The soft, warm glide of it contrasted with the metal of the hinges digging into his shoulder and spine. Dean’s hand moved, and he inhaled quickly as he took the brunt of the pain and pressed Sam further against the lockers, whine of metal a warning against their brute strength. Boyish hipbones digging into one another, and Sam wanted bruises on his hips so he could tattoo them there forever. Sam’s lips moved away from Dean’s as they panted against each other; slow, wet trail along jaw and under ear. When he bit down hard against tendon (seeking vein, seeking lifeblood), Dean growled and pulled away. But only minutely, still tangled in one another’s grasp. They stared at each other. Hard. Chests heaving. It had been seconds, hours.

Sam was Lady Macbeth, to be sure. But he didn’t know if Dean was Duncan or Macbeth or some other minor character in Sam’s macabre play. Didn’t know if he killed his brother or whispered secret things of sin and blood. Duncan or Macbeth or scribe, Dean’s lips were stained red from lust and Sam didn’t know whose violent delight it was or if it mattered. _**May my keen knife see not the wound it makes.**_ He looked away, pushed Dean off completely. 

There was hurt on his brother’s face; but it was shadowed by determination, and resignation, and the furrowing brows that only appeared when Dean couldn’t nail a move, or hit a target, or name a beast. The face he made before he said again, and again, and again. Sam knew he had awoken something that slept soundly. A deep rumbling that could no longer be ignored. _**What’s done cannot be undone.**_


End file.
